The Legend of the Dark Knight: Beginnings
by jschneids
Summary: An attempt at blending together the best elements of some of Batman's many incarnations into a single unified tale. Beginnings is a telling of the origins of the Batman and how he forever changed Gotham City, a city in need of a hero. In need of a Dark Knight.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey all. Before we get started here, I wanted to take a moment to explain what the goal of this story is. I've wanted to do a good Batman story for a long time, but could never decide on what depiction of him to go with. Should I base it on the comics, the live action films, the animated series, the videogames? Then it occurred to me; why chose just one? **

**My goal here is to draw on what I think are the best elements of my favorite depictions of Batman from across various media and attempt to blend them into a unified narrative that will explore (eventually) not just Bruce Wayne, but the stories of his supporting characters, villains, sidekicks, and Gotham itself, as well as the Batman's relationship with the larger DC Universe. Ambitious? Perhaps, but really at the end of the day all it is is an excuse for me to go geek–out on all things Batman in the name of "research", so I say onwards!**

**This first arc here is going to involve itself with the origins of the Batman and his core supporting characters; that is to say Alfred, Jim Gordon, and (maybe) Dick Grayson and Lucius Fox. As such, I'm going to be drawing heavily on the classic Batman: Year One, as well as Scott Snyder's more recent Zero Year from DC's relaunched New 52. The game Arkham Origins may be drawn in as well eventually. Now before anyone goes and starts pointing fingers at me, I'll be the first to admit that many scenes are going to be drawn directly from source material, dialogue included. More original content will come in as time goes on, but it'll be especially obvious in this first arc since, well, there's really only so many good versions of Batman's origins to draw on. I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel here; just perhaps smooth a few bumps out in it, that's all. Familiarity with the sources won't be required, though, and I'll do my best to do justice to them in a novelization. **

**Anyways, enough of me rambling. Please let me know what you think, good or bad, in the reviews and comments, because I do hope you guys enjoy this. I certainly enjoyed immersing myself in the Batman mythos once more as I wrote this.**

**Cheers**

**-jschneids**

The dream was always the same. He was happy, giddy even, excitably chattering his parents' ears off as they made their way through the alleyway, leaving the glittering lights of the Monarch Theater behind them.

"Its just a quick shortcut", his father had promised his mother soothingly. "Alfred will meet us with the car on the other side, and besides," he added with a laugh, "should we run into to trouble we've got Zorro to protect us!"

Visions of the masked hero fighting for love, honor, and justice swam through his younger self's mind; a man in black striking fear into the hearts of his foes and hope in the hearts of their victims. The alley darkened as they went, shadows seeming to stretch into infinity as the walls of the apartment buildings grew around them like a canyon. He drew closer to his parents, the gloom banishing all thoughts of daring heroes and mighty triumphs from his mind. His mother too seemed to grow uneasy, as if sensing doom.

Like a ghost, the man peeled out from the shadows his eyes wide his face peppered with dirty whiskers and chapped skin. He raised the revolver in his right hand and made his demands in a quick, jittery voice, eyes wildly flicking back and forth. With a cool confidence his father had gently raised his hands and placed himself between the mugger and his family.

Coolly, Thomas Wayne had spoke to his killer, calmly removing his wallet and watch before tossing them on the ground before the man, patiently telling him that there was no need for rash action, that they would cooperate. Then the wild-eyed gunman had turned his attentions to his mother, to the heirloom string of pearls she had decided to wear on a whim. He wanted them, wanted them enough to kill for them. She had panicked; three generations had worn those pearls, the young boy knew they had value beyond a price tag. Her fingers flew to the necklace, and the quick motion was enough. The mugger's finger twitched.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The young man awoke with a start as the buzzer that served as the brownstone's doorbell sounded once more. Rubbing the vestiges of the unintended nap from his eyes, he quickly rose from the moldering couch that had served as his resting place and donned the Gotham Knights baseball cap and windbreaker that had served as the crux of his daily disguise since his return. He slipped on his shoes in case a quick departure proved necessary as the rain of the early summer storm pattered down against the townhouse's windows. The buzzer sounded once again and when at last he reached the entry hall to open it, his breath caught in his chest.

Alfred Pennyworth stood upon his front stoop, immaculately dressed as always, a black umbrella sheltering him from the rain.

"Master Bruce," he said, his stoic voice and face quavering. "May…may I come in, sir?"

Bruce would vaguely recall mumbling some response in the affirmative later on, his mind and heart still racing. He had planned for this, played it out in his head over and over again, and yet with the man who had raised him standing before him, all words failed him.

"Alfred, he began, stumbling over his own tongue, "I-"

A harsh gloved slap top the face cut him off. He had seen the strike coming, could have stopped it if he wished, but he knew in his heart that he had deserved it. The tight hug that followed it was unexpected and succinct; a heartbeat later the British butler had stepped back and reclaimed most, but not all, of his composure. Bruce struggled to do the same, casting an eye at his guest. The years had left their mark, to be sure; the tall and whipcord lean man's black hair had faded to a thinning salt-and-pepper crown that nonetheless gave him an air of distinction, his thin moustache still gracing his chronically stiff upper lip.

"Eight years, sir?" the man said at last, his voice quiet, eyes trying so desperately to project anger but only succeeding at showing sorrow. "You couldn't be bothered to write?"

His young master looked away, ashamed. "I…I'm sorry, Alfred." Finally he found the strength to meet the older man's gaze. "I couldn't risk contact, though. It would have jeopardized everything I've worked for." He paused, frowning. "How did you find me?"

The butler's gaze softened. "I never stopped looking for you, sir," he replied crisply. "After you disappeared from Oxford, I put that trust fund you left in my care to work." A mournful smile played across his lips. "That, and the fact that I know of exactly one person in Gotham who shares my precise order at the Finnegan Ice Cream Parlor."

A slight color spread across the younger man's cheeks. "So that was you there this afternoon. I…it was a moment of weakness. Nostalgia I suppose." He looked away once more, until the familiar weight of gentle hand fell on his shoulder.

"Master Bruce-"

"Please, Alfred," he answered him quietly, meeting his guardian's eyes once more. "Just Bruce."

"Don't be preposterous, sir. Master Bruce, why this secrecy? Why hide here in this slum so close to where your parents-"

"Where my parents were murdered, Alfred," the younger man snarled. "Where I watched them get gunned down for a few bucks and a string of pearls. I came back to make sure that no child in this city ever goes through that again." Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Bruce composed himself. "I came back because this city is eating itself alive. Every day innocent people are preyed upon, and the justice system is a sham. The police and the city government are just puppets for the mafia, and its only getting worse each day."

He balled his hands into fists, biting down on the old rage and sorrow that threatened to bubble free. "I swore to them, Alfred," he added quietly. "Swore to them on their graves that I would make a difference. That I would change this city, and this is the only way I can see how. I didn't want the consequences of this coming back on the people I cared about, on my parents' legacy." He fixed the man with a somber gaze. "For that, it was better if Bruce Wayne stayed dead."

The two men walked together, entering into the dingy townhouse's excuse for a kitchen. "I left Oxford because I had learned all I could from it. To keep that promise I needed the skills…the knowledge to execute this, and I scoured the world to find it, but now I finally think I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" the exasperated Brit finally cried. "To what ends, Master Bruce? A one-man crusade? This is a farce! You'll get yourself killed and I, I…"

Alfred sighed, and for a moment Bruce could see the weight of the years on his shoulders. The years of love and kindness the man had given him, and the years of grief he had given him in return.

"I can't lose you, my boy. Not again. Not after I've just found you."

The two embraced in earnest this time. "You won't," Bruce answered him at last. The next words were almost painful. Emotions swirled within him, pangs of guilt, anxiety, and desperate fleeting hope flickering. "Not if you help me."

Alfred recoiled, weary eyes surveying his former charge. Built chewed at Bruce's soul; had he pushed him too far, asked him too much too soon?

The pregnant pause that sat between them chilled the younger man to his soul. "I've known you long enough to know when your mind is made up, Master Bruce," the butler finally answered, crisply. "Until you come to your senses on you own time, there'll be no dissuading you, will there?"

"I'm afraid not."

The older man shook his head and pursed his lips. "Fine," he answered at last. "I'll join you in this madness, if only to keep you from getting your head blown off."

Shaking his head wistfully, the butler moved back towards the entry hall.

"I'll be back soon," he called, brusquely. "I'll bring you something proper to eat and you can fill me in on what precisely I've just signed up for."

"Alfred that won't be necessary," Bruce called after him as he followed his butler's wake, only to abruptly halt as the man whirled to face him by the door.

"Bollocks, Master Bruce," the man replied tartly. "You look like you'd be hard pressed to prepare toast in this hovel. I'll get a decent meal in you if it kills me, and then, young man, we are going to talk."

With a flourish, Alfred Pennyworth retook his umbrella from the coat rack, swung wide the door and stormed back into the rain. Bruce caught the reflection of the tears forming at he corners of his eyes in the glass, and as the man closed to door behind him, Bruce Wayne could only pray that he had done the right thing.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two weeks later, Bruce Wayne sat on the eve of his 24th birthday hunched over a sea of files and photographs spread across the kitchen table. He had spent his days and nights out in the seedier parts of the city watching, waiting, and listening. The East End, the Narrows, Oldtown; all of them had painted an unsettling picture.

The old news wasn't what worried him. The Falcone family still ruled the roost of Gotham's underworld, the police still firmly in their pockets. Carmine "The Roman" Falcone was largely regarded as the most powerful man in the city, and for good reason. Their long time rivals the Maronis had been largely subdued, though word on the street was Sal Maroni was simply biding his time, sharpening his knives. Roman Sionis rounded out the mafia trinity, his Black Mask gang having absorbed the remnants of Gotham's notorious Irish mob and a dozen other smaller gangs when they established themselves seven years prior. Sionis was a sadist by all accounts, wearing the gang's namesake ebony skull mask to intimidate his playthings. Between the three of them, the organizations controlled the vast majority of criminal turf in the city, with a few small pockets of independent crews carving out their petty kingdoms on the kingpins' scraps. Relative newcomer Oswald Cobblepot, the last scion of one of Gotham's fallen first families, had been making waves as a masterful smuggler and black market merchant, though his exact base of operations remained difficult to pin down. His diminutive stature and unfortunate appearance had earned him the derisive nickname of the Penguin from his competitors, but Cobblepot himself seemed to revel in his infamy, adopting the bird as his sigil. All four men were untouchable by the law, protected by veneers of legitimate businesses and packs of lawyers. Grimly, Bruce looked upon the reconnaissance photos he had taken of them, memorizing their faces; their times would come.

No, what concerned him more immediately was a scourge that had emerged in only the past few months. The Red Hood Gang, as they were called, was the product of a single man, their illusive leader known only as Red Hood One. Through blackmail and extortion, the mystery man had managed to build himself a crew of sleeper agents that stretched citywide, from the police and city government to the other mafias. His "recruits" were typically members of the upper and middle class; men and women with something to lose, Bruce thought as he scowled. The city's spike in the murder rate suggested a grim fate to those who refused this recruitment. Over the past four months, Red Hood One had managed to terrorize the city through kidnappings, blackmail, and robberies, all while keeping his own identity anonymous. Everyone from Falcone to the Penguin wanted him dead, but even with a target on his back a mile wide, Red Hood One's reign of terror was continuing.

"Not for long," the young man growled as his eyes flew over every report and photo he had managed to scrounge up; he had found his first target.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The white van's tires screeched like a banshee as the vehicle careened wildly through the city's streets, hooking turns and wild mergers that left many of its pursuers in the dust. Black sedans pursued it doggedly, hails of bullets flying forth from their passengers, glimpses of red masks and black suits peering out from tinted windows.

Hands locked in a white-knuckled grip to the wheel, a man with the shredded remains of a latex mask for a face worked the vehicle artfully. When the traffic lights ahead turned red and mired the streets in gridlock he mounted patches of the curb bare of pedestrians, pushing the machine to its limits as the battered shock absorbers and tortured suspension groaned their protests. He lighted down alleyways, the van's sides scraping buildings with the scream of battered metal and a shower of sparks. He left his pursuers trapped in traffic, stranded in backstreets, and crashing into buildings, but still they came.

_You wanted to make an impression, _the driver thought to himself with a dark humor. _I'd say you have Red Hood One's attention. They're pulling out all the stops for this._

Banking another corner, Bruce Wayne cursed silently; the police, finally wise to the chase, had set up a roadblock at the end of the street. Time seemed to slow as his adrenaline rushed and his eyes flit wildly about his surroundings, searching for an escape. It was a one-way street, no alleys or cross streets in sight. The street had nothing but a coffee shop, a department store, some apartments and-

_That will do,_ he thought as he spied the form of the aboveground parking complex. The bullets that shattered his driver's side mirror and the van's rear door shook him back to reality, though, and he spared a glance back at the four men huddled in the van's back, their eyes wild and panicked; men who had refused Red Hood One's "invitation" and had been in the process of being prepared for execution when he intervened.

"Hang on," he barked back at them before pitching the speeding van into a sharp right turn. "Thing's are going to get a bit bumpy!"

The van screeched in protest as he aimed it towards the parking complex's entrance and floored it. Smashing through the toll booth's guard arm like kindling, Bruce deftly steered the wobbling van towards the complex's ramp, his ascent at blistering speeds peppered with the kind of hairpin turns that left streaks on pavement as they reached each new floor, shaking stomachs and burning rubber.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred hollered at him via his earpiece. "What in God's name do you think you're-"

"Not now, base," came the growled reply as the younger man made tires squeal once more and rounded the final bend to the complex's rooftop level. In a heartbeat he took stock of his surroundings, their exit route chosen. He steered the speeding van towards the rooftop's far edge, a harbor-side construction site complete with a tower crane across the street from it. Slamming on the tortured brakes and working the wheel like an artist, he sent the skidding vehicle into a hard spin until at last it came to rest with a mighty thump. Its rear bumper scraped against the concrete barrier that separated it from open sky and the street below, its windshield facing the ramp the had just exited, and as Bruce dug through the loaded duffel bag that sat on the passenger side seat he could hear the cars of his pursuers climbing ever closer. _Not much time,_ he thought, plan crystallizing in his mind's eye. _Have to be quick. _

Finding his prize, the would-be vigilante tossed a modified climber's harness and carabineers back to the dazed men in the van's rear.

"Strap in if you want to live," he commanded darkly, and not waiting for a response he set back to work, precious seconds ticking by. A small grey capsule was lobbed at the van's rear door, where it stuck with a metallic thump. Driver's window already shattered, he tossed a handful of black spheres out, blanketing the hood of the vehicle and the pavement around it. As the echoes of the Red Hood Gang's cars grew ever closer, he took two final items from the bag before zipping it tight, tossing it in the back, and ordering his passengers to clip it to the harness as well. He held the detonator in one hand, and the fruits of his latest tinkering project in the other. With a silent prayer, he hoped that the device would hold up under this unplanned field test, and then he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Moments later a quartet of black sedans tore up the ramp and surrounded in a rough semi-circle, men and women in pristine black suits and shining red masks poring out from them. Weapons drawn, they trained them on the van. Fifteen blank red faces stared at him, a mix of high caliber pistols and, to his surprise, what looked like full assault rifles pointed straight at him. _Red Hood is upping his game,_ Bruce thought grimly,_ but where is the bastard…_

With a flourish a door on the final sedan opened, and the young man narrowed his brow as he laid eyes on his target. Compared to the more form fitting masks of his underlings, Red Hood One's own helm was a gaudy, tubular piece of work that glimmered in the dying sunlight, obscuring all but the wearer's mouth. His suit was pristine, white gloves gracing hands that were currently pulling an Uzi from his jacket. Bruce spared a glance back; the men were still strapping in, he needed more time.

"You know," the gang leader called out as he too trained his weapon on the offending van, "I've got to admit, you've got style, kid. That flip move back at the yard, stealing our van. Woo! Quite the rush." His exposed mouth pulled into a toothy grin. "I don't know where the hell you learned to drive, kiddo, but kudos! You've managed to throw a real wrench into our operations these past weeks, you know. You put up quite the chase, but you're at the end of the line now."

The mirth faded soon though, a sour smirk showing off crooked teeth. "I'm going to kill those men in there with all manner of creativity, and then, then I'm going to deal with you. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Want to know why?"

The masked man stepped forward, flinging his arms wide. "Because this city belongs to the Red Hood!"

Bruce spared a glance back; the former prisoners were as ready as they'd ever be. His grit his teeth. "Oh does it now," he whispered, before his thumb flicked the detonator.

With a sharp crack, the smoke bombs he'd scattered erupted into a thick black cloud before him and the charge he'd placed on the rear door threw it wide open.

"Open fire!" he heard Red Hood One scream, but by that point he was already in motion. Bullets whizzed through the black cloud and glass shattered as the young man dove to the back of the van, his final trick in one hand and the other working frantically to attach the other men's harness to the one he had worn beneath his jacket. A few seconds later, practically dragging the men with him, they were out of the van and standing at the building's edge. Another second later they were over it.

Alfred screamed through his earpiece, his passengers screamed, and the mind shrieked as it rushed past his ears, but he paid them no mind. Instead, he raised the grapnel gun he had spent the past few days perfecting, clipped it to the harness, aimed, and let it fly with a prayer. The claw struck true, latching tight to the crane's hook and all too soon the cable it had trailed behind it ran taut. Bruce struggled to keep himself and his passengers stable as the wide arc of the grapnel swung them away from the Hood's gunmen, out over the neighboring construction site, and then over the churned waters of the harbor itself. And then the cable snapped.

Plummeting once more, the young man could only watch as the darkened waters of the mouth of the Gotham River loomed ever closer.

_This is going to hurt._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Interlude: The Past

Rio de Janeiro

"This is insane, Miguel!"

Even over the roar of the engine and the blare of the sirens, the Brazilian bandit's laughter could be heard.

"Yes my boy, that is it precisely!" the man in the passenger's seat answered between cackles. "Precisely! Now hang left here!"

Bruce grit his teeth and obeyed, turning the steering wheel hard. The hotrod obeyed. The young man could feel his whole body leaning with the turn, and one of the police cruisers tailing them couldn't keep up, flipping into an out of control barrel roll.

"Miguel the cars we practiced with were-"

"Dull and plain, boy, I know! Gray pigeons!"

Bruce swerved hard to avoid a divider and grunted as he felt the force jolt up through his spine. "I was going to say inconspicuous," he shouted back at last, "but this monster…"

The young man caught a glimpse of their vehicle's reflection in the waterways next to the road, the rippling image travelling just as fast as they were; a hot pink sports car, its rear seats loaded with military hardware. He felt his throat grow dry, but he found his voice again even over the roar of Rio.

"All the tricks you've taught me over the past six weeks, color cover, crowd ducking; how do you expect me to lose them in this thing. The Brazilian cackled once again, and this time Bruce spared a glance to take in his teacher. Don Miguel's weathered brown face was peeled in a wide grin, his gold tooth glinting in the setting sun. Tinted sunglasses the same color as his tooth protected his eyes from dust as well as stray rays, and his curly mess of dark hair was thoroughly windswept.

"That's just it, Bruce! That is the lesson, the final one! I don't expect you to lose them, I expect you to thrill them!"

The young man couldn't believe his ears, but he glued his eyes back to the road; at these speeds, the slightest distraction could prove deadly.

"Thrill them," he screamed back, hands clinging to the wheel as if his life depended on it. "Don Miguel, they're policia! They're not here to be thrilled!"

Migeul reached forward from his languorous pose in the passenger's seat to flip a switch on the dashboard of his custom hotrod. Bruce tensed and prepared for what would come next; he had seen the man pull this trick several times before.

"Bruce," he started, his accent flavoring his English, " I once drove through the national gallery of Peru. Made off with fourteen million dollars in Incan artifacts with that dial," he punctuated his sentence by jabbing one grimy finger towards the speedometer, "never dropping below 30. My car was like a gold-plated mirror and a I had a statue of the sun god, Initi, in the passenger seat!" The man worked another dial on the dashboard, and the pressure gauge he had added a few nights prior began to rise. "Yet why did they not catch me, Bruce? Why? Because when they see a car like this, a car out of dreams, with a touch of magic to it…"

The pressure gauge fully filled, Don Miguel cracked his fingers, gave a wild grin, and pressed a red button. With a crack, the grappling hook mounted to the car's underside launched and latched on to a telephone pole at a street corner, swinging the speeding car into a turn that would have been impossible unaided, tires screeching and rubber burning. Don Miguel howled in triumph, raising his pistol and firing into the air as he laughed. At the last minute he pressed the switch again and the cable released, and it was all Bruce could do to swing the car back onto a straight path after the harrowing curve. Another police cruiser met its end as it attempted to follow them, only to careen wildly into the highway divider.

"They won't catch you," the bandit began, manic grin still plastering his face. "They won't catch you because deep down, they don't want to! Oh they'll chase you, to be sure, but they don't want to catch you. They want to _believe_."

As Bruce peered down the promenade ahead, a police blockade straddled the wide street with officers armed to the teeth.

"Could've fooled me," the student grunted back. Don Miguel simply laughed. Bruce had only known the man for a brief time, but it was plain to see that the infamous crook was an unrepentant adrenaline junkie; the man was actually enjoying this.

"Oh, don't be fooled by that, boy. They _want_ you to break their little line, to keep the legend growing."

Smoothly the mocha-skinned man reached back into the car's rear seats and withdrew a rocket launcher from their pile of stolen weaponry. "Now," he said with a dark humor, tooth and glasses glinting in the sun as he shouldered the weapon and took aim. "Let us see if this little toy was worth stealing in the first place."

Internally, Bruce cursed; this had gone on long enough. With quick, agile motions his hands and feet worked in concert, shifting gears and throwing the car into a tight turn with a sudden lurch. The bump was enough to throw Don Miguel's new toy from his hands and out the side of the car.

"Idiot boy!" he exclaimed, his mouth twisted into a wild snarl. "Do you know how much that cost?! This is not the plan!"

Bruce couldn't help but give a slight smirk as he worked the wheel into another graceless tire-skidding turn, his path chosen.

"Yeah," his student answered him, aiming his vehicle towards the wide glass façade of the hotel ballroom, "afraid I'm more of an improviser."

The car's tires rumbled over the low steps of the terraced courtyard, thrumming up through the vehicle's frame and into its passengers.

"Slow down!" Miguel screamed, bullets of sweat beading on his brow. "You'll kill us both!"

He got no reply, and as the latticework window wall loomed ever closer he lapsed into a rapid mumbled prayer in Portuguese. The screaming hotrod met the glass with an almighty crash, piercing through the crystalline wall like a bullet, a hail of glimmering shards trailing in their wake. With every trick he had learned over the past few weeks, Bruce steered the car through the panicked ballroom as Rio's high society scrambled to get out of the way, pristine suits and evening gowns torn in their haste. He aimed towards the chamber's wide doors and gunned it.

"No," Don Miguel started, his dislodged glasses revealing wide eyes. "No, I have never been caught! I will never be caught! You idiot schoolboy I knew I should have-"

His rant was cut short by a right hook to the jaw, and the man crumpled like a doll. The student trained his hands back on the wheel immediately after, and cutting the wheel hard to the left and working the pedals like a madman he sent the vehicle into a wild screeching spin, burnt rubber staining pristine tile floors. Even skidding the final length of the way as it was, the car still struck the doors with enough force to shatter them like kindling, and the monstrous pink car roared into the hotel's lobby before slamming into a gilded faux Greco-Roman fountain.

When at last his head stopped ringing and he was able to disentangle himself from the airbag, Bruce spared a glance for Don Miguel even as his busy hands worked and unbuckling the seat belt.

"Thank you for your tutelage," he told the unconscious man in a low voice, finally free of the gaudy vehicle. "But you've killed twenty three police officers all across the continent over the past three years alone, and there are some things you don't get to run away from."

With that, on shaky feet a young Bruce Wayne ran past the hotel's shocked patrons and into the streets of Rio de Janeiro, disappearing into its growing shadows. Later, from a safe distance, he'd watch as the police walked the infamous Don Miguel out in handcuffs. The man had taught him much, but justice would be served, and it was with no small measure of pride that he watched as a maniac like Miguel was taken off the streets.

He left the city the next day.

**And there's Chapter 1. Please let me know what you guys think, and see you next time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys. So here's chapter 2 of this little experiment. Its' been a lot of fun for me trying to weave together the "mythology" of Batman that I want from the different sources, and a blast to write. Hope you all enjoy it.**

Gillian Loeb was a short and portly middle-aged man whose greasy hairline was in the midst of a losing battle with the encroaching expanse of his brow and forehead. Gotham City's Chief Commissioner of Police sat in his spacious office snapping loudly on a piece of nicotine gum – his wife had been quite insistent on the ending of his cigarette habit a few months prior, as the growing graveyard of gum wrappers in his trashcan could attest to.

He sat peering at the papers spread across his desk, financial reports and bank statements from offshores accounts in less than reputable locales, when the sound of his office door opening roused his attention.

"Commissioner, you wanted to see me, sir?"

The voice was a deep bass, and Loeb motioned for its owner to enter. Detective Arnold Flass was a large man who nonetheless moved his bulk with surprising grace, navigating the labyrinth of shelves and cases bursting with knickknacks and novelties that filled the Commissioner's office until at last reaching the chair that sat before the large mahogany desk.

Wiping his papers aside, Loeb wrinkled his face into a smile and leaned back into his chair.

"Flass, my boy," he began, his voice rasping ever so slightly. He had traded in his cigarettes for gum, but the habit's mark on him remained. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, take a seat. Would you like a drink?"

Nodding in the affirmative, the detective lowered himself into the cushioned chair whilst his superior rummaged through a drawer in his desk only to produce two crystal glasses and one bottle of excellently aged whisky. Flass graciously accepted and Loeb gave out a contented sigh as the liquor touched his lips, having spat his gum aside.

"Now," he began, lowering his drink, "let's get down to business. Arnold, I'm having you reassigned. Starting tomorrow you'll be working under Sergeant Gordon."

Flass raised a brow at this. "Gordon, sir? The man is-"

"The man is a pain in my ass, that's what he is," Loeb interjected, taking another sip before sighing. "The public loves him, and the man has refused any and all offers we've ever made him." The commissioner narrowed is eyes and frowned. "A man of his reputation among the public remaining…" The man paused, as if tasting his words before choosing them before finally selecting one. "Unattached, shall we say, from the usual order of things around here, well I think you can see how that might be a problem, can't you?" The man rolled his eyes before continuing. "And now with that new DA being just as much of a boy scout as Gordon, our friends in the city just want some insurance that these two won't go rocking the boat."

Flass took all of this in in silence as he sipped his drink before finally turning his eyes back to Loeb.

"So what do you need me to do, boss," he rumbled at last.

"You know how things in this city work, Flass. You know how this force works." The commissioner leaned forward and stared intently at his underling. "Make Gordon understand it, by any means necessary. I need him contained and brought into the fold. That means no more 'super-cop' escapades giving him an even bigger public image than he already has, and no more sermons to his squad about ethics, and the meaning of the badge." Loeb sneered as he spat out those last words, shaking his head and taking another drink. "I think some of them are starting to stick; just last week Bullock turned down another 'overtime' job. Bullock of all people!"

Gotham's police commissioner could only shake his head and rub his temples before leveling a stubby finger at his guest. "I need a leash on Gordon," Loeb said at last in a low voice. "I need a leash on him, and you have got free reign to do whatever you need to in order to put it on him. Do I make myself clear?"

Flass was quiet for a moment, and then proceeded to drain his drink in one fluid motion before facing his commander with a smile. "Absolutely, sir. Need me to do anything about Dent?"

The older men waved a hand idly and continued to drink. "The good district attorney is not our problem," Loeb answered between sips. "Though rest assured he's being handled. You just worry about Gordon, and you'll come out of this with a healthy salary bonus." The commissioner smiled. "Our friends downtown like to show their gratitude."

Flass raised his empty glass in salute. "They always do," the man answered, a dark smile playing across his lips. "They always do."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

James Gordon heaved a heavy sigh as he plopped into the seat of his car and stirred the engine to life; it had been a long day, culminating with the distasteful news that one Arnold Flass was now under his jurisdiction.

The GCPD was riddled with dirty cops, but there were a few who had made corruption an art form, and Flass was one of them. The man was a headache that he most certainly did not want or need. He rubbed his temples idly before readjusting his glasses and inching the car out from its tight parking spot in the station's garage.

Gotham's rush hour gridlock was an inescapable facet of life in the city, a force of nature unto itself. Horns blared and curses in half a dozen different languages were slung almost casually while jaywalkers and madmen on bikes and motorcycles wove through the mess of automobiles with practiced ease. The heat of the summer was locked in by the humidity, and this far from the harbor there was scant hope of even the faintest breeze to provide any relief. Tempers boiled as sweat beaded on brows, overtaxed engines struggling to give their masters a puff of sweet air-conditioning, and all the while heat rippled in waves off of pavement and vehicle alike, a city sweltering and so very desperately trying to beat the heat.

The policeman had settled into his seat with a tired resignation that today would indeed be a long ride home, the mindless chatter of _Gotham Today_ with Jack Ryder oozing out from the radio as background noise. A burst of static over his police radio shattered that weary apathy.

"…developing hostage situation in Midtown. Branden is requesting permission to engage, over."

Jim Gordon felt his blood run cold at that. In a flash, he had the handset to his mouth, other hand groping wildly about in the glove box.

"This is Sergeant James Gordon, I am en route to your location. Do not, I repeat do not engage the suspect. That is a direct order!"

Hands finally lighting on his prize, Gordon rolled down his window and slapped the siren to the car's roof, the strong magnet on its bottom locking it in place even as its lights began to flash and speaker wail. With a blare of the horn, the man broke his car free of the mass of immobile vehicles as he mounted the curb, laying on the horn generously to shake the sluggish pedestrians from their stupor and out of his way.

_Gotta get there before Branden get's let off his leash,_ he thought desperately, hands glued tightly to the steering wheel. _If that lunatic has his way it'll be a bloodbath. _

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Howard Branden was not a patient man, and as the sun began to slip down behind Gotham's skyline his patience for standing around sweltering in full SWAT gear ran dry.

"Alright, screw this," he spat. "Get your head in the game, boys, we're moving in!"

One of the greenhorns, a new member on the squad, looked troubled before finally finding his voice.

"But, sir," he managed, "what about Sergeant Gordon?"

"Fuck," Branden spat back promptly, savoring every syllable, "Sergeant Gordon! You pussies want to sit around and wait for him to come hold your hand? Fine! If any of you boys still have your balls left, your welcome to come along, otherwise stay out of my way!"

The squeal of rubber on pavement rent the muggy air as Gordon's car screeched to a halt just beyond the police barricade. Camera bulbs flashed and reporters chattered excitably but the policeman brushed them aside without a second though; there were bigger issues at stake.

He waited until he was past the media circus that had assembled just outside the blockade; there was no need to make this into any more of a public spectacle than it already was. Once they were past the reach of prying microphones and cameras, though, the police sergeant leveled a deathly glare at the SWAT leader.

"Stand down, Branden," Gordon said, steel in his voice. "There are kids in there, for God's sake!"

"And we're here to get them out! The situation is being handled, Gordon. You're not needed here!"

The sergeant narrowed his eyes as he stared long and hard at the pig-eyed man before him.

"Just like you 'handled' that protest out at Robinson Park last month? Just how many college students did you end up hospitalizing, eh?"

Gordon hissed his final words through clenched teeth. It was monsters like Branden, like Flass, that had cost the police force the trust of the city. He wouldn't let it slip any further, not if he could help it.

Branden moved to speak, but another hard glare from Gordon saw the words wither and die on his lips. Branden's brows furrowed, and for a moment Sergeant Gordon could only wonder what thoughts we're flitting behind the man's hateful little eyes as he prepared for the worst. Finally, something seemed to break in the man.

"Stand down," Branden called back to his men, his eyes never leaving Gordon. "The sergeant here is going to attempt to negotiate. When that fails, we're up next."

Leaning in close, his hands in fists, the SWAT leader breathed words in barely a whisper for Gordon's ears only.

"You're gonna regret this, Jim. Mark my words."

With that, Branden turned heel and stormed off, leaving the sergeant alone in the sweltering heat to face a madman. Slowly steeping out to the front door of the apartment building the man had been cornered in, he reviewed what he'd been briefed.

_Suspect has a history of mental illness, possibly schizophrenic,_ the policeman thought as he approached with his hands in the air. _He'll be erratic, but not the brightest guy I've ever gone after. _Above, looking out a third story window, was his target. It was hard to make out details from street level but what was amply clear was the small blonde-haired shape their suspect held close to him with one hand, the glimmer of gunmetal held to her head.

That sealed it. A change of hair color, and it could have been his Barbara up there, his little girl. His will turned to steel, and the rest came easy. Slowly and gently, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his sidearm, making sure the man could see it before laying it on the ground along with the jacket itself; he was sweating plenty already without it.

Hands over his head, James Gordon walked towards the apartment complex's front door and prayed that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

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The building reeked of must and age, and as Gordon climbed the stairs the floorboards groaned and moaned in protest. A battered looking old tomcat hissed at him as it darted underfoot into a new patch of shadows. The man paused a minute to calm his nerves before continuing on.

The floor creaked as he stood before the door of the kidnapper's den in the dingy hallway. Before he could do anything, the door swung open and there his target stood.

He was a heavyset man on the cusp of middle age, his face cratered with old pockmarks and acne scars. His eyes were wild, sweat beaded on his brow, a sort of animal panic written clear across his face. He held the same little girl he had held in the window close to his paunch with one arm while the other pointed a grimy revolver square at the policeman's chest.

"Stay back!" the man shouted, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. "No lunch! No gangrene lunch!"

"Easy pal," Gordon answered him, voice gentle. "That's fine. We'll order out." Internally he cursed; he hadn't expected the man to be this far gone.

The same mangy tomcat he had seen walking in chose that moment to let loose a long meow from its newest shadowed perch, and the kidnapper struggled to find the sound's source, his eyes flitting about wildly. Training took over.

Moving as quickly as he could, the cop closed the distance between them and pushed the gun up and away from himself – and the girl. A swift knee to the groin and a good right hook later, and it was over. The man toppled like a tree as the girl ran from his grasp in tears, and Gordon made sure that he was well and truly knocked out and thoroughly handcuffed before he approached the quartet of children huddling near the window, fearful eyes locked on his sweat-soaked form. He heaved a tired sigh before walking over to them, doing his best to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He dropped to on knee as he reached them, painting on a warm smile that stretched below his ruddy moustache in what he desperately hoped was a comforting expression.

"So," he asked the four of them as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the garish paper-covered packet. "Who wants gum?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Reckless, thoughtless, and mind-bogglingly stupid, that's what that was."

There were very few people in the world that Bruce Wayne would accept such a tongue-lashing from, but Alfred Pennyworth was one of them. Bruce sat in silence back at the brownstone that continued to serve as his base naked from the waist up and grit his teeth, both in impatience and pain; while the butler's acerbic tongue went to work on his ego, the man's hands were occupied stitching up the handful of wounds his latest "blunder", as Alfred had called it, had earned him. Some of the shots Red Hood's men had taken came far too close for comfort, though he was confident he hadn't left behind enough blood to be tracked. Or worse, identified.

"That stunt at the parking garage almost got you killed, sir," the butler concluded sharply as he set the last suture with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary. Bruce had known for years that the man who raised him had done time in the British army, possibly even the special forces; his skills as a field medic served as a testament to that. Though in the countless years he had known him, the butler had never once opened up about those experiences. _Perhaps I'm not one to judge when it comes to keeping secrets,_ the younger man thought with a half-hearted humor as he rose to his feet, derailing the train of memories from his youth; such trains invariably had one final destination.

"That stunt," Bruce shot back, rising at last, Alfred's ministrations complete, "saved the lives of innocent men that the Red Hood would have butchered otherwise." He winced slightly. "This Red Hood Gang… its something new, its not like the street crime that was plaguing the city when I left. It's like a virus, hidden until the last minute."

"Speaking of things remaining hidden, sir, isn't it about time Bruce Wayne returned to life?" The slightest tinge of hope flavored the butlers words.

Working out a kink in his shoulder, Bruce shook his head as he turned to face the older man. "Return Bruce Wayne to Gotham? I'm sorry, Alfred, but Bruce Wayne is legally dead, and that's the way it's going to stay. This is guerilla warfare, and I'm more effective as a shadow." He sighed. "Being Bruce Wayne again would just be a distraction."

The younger man watched as a retort rose and died in his former guardian's throat, stifled by some unknown mélange of respect, pride, and a host of other emotions that were promptly locked back behind the butler's veneered visage; Alfred was nothing if not painfully professional. For a moment, though, that mask cracked and a look of weary concern and time-tempered sorrow shone through.

"Master Bruce, you never _stopped_ being Bruce Wayne," Alfred said softly before continuing. "I must confess that when I agreed to aid you in this folly, it was so I might gain your ear and talk some sense into you." A look of sorrow filled is old eyes. "Eight years, Master Bruce," he continued. "I thought…"

Throwing on a shirt and shoes in one smooth motion, the younger man turned to face Alfred and laid one hand on his shoulder as they left the bedroom strewn with various bits of medical supplies and gadgetry.

"Just Bruce," his charge answered the older man. "Please. Trust me. I've spent almost a decade preparing for this, and now that it's finally begun…I can't tell you what it means to me to have you by my side." Warmth filled his eyes and a smile graced his lips, but it was not one of joy, of humor. It held something else, a hunger. "We'll have the Red Hood Gang in pieces soon enough."

The weary butler bit his tongue once more. "As you say, sir," he said at last as the two moved towards the front door. Bruce slipped on his baseball cap and sunglasses and moved to open the door.

"Will you be needing me to drive you anywhere, sir?" Alfred asked over the creak of hinges in desperate need of oiling.

"That won't be necessary, Alfred," a new voice answered him from the doorframe. "I think I can lend a hand in that regard."

Whirling, the two men turned to face the newcomer. A wry smile stretched across a weathered face.

"Hello, Bruce."

"Uncle Philip?"

Philip Kane wore a well-tailored grey suit over his trim frame, nearly the same shade as his hair. Silver cufflinks glinted in the afternoon sun as the man clapped a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"Its good to see you again, Bruce," Kane said with a smile, drawing the young man into an unreciprocated hug. Its recipient drew back, still in shock.

"But how did you-"

"Find you?" His uncle chuckled. "I've had a search out on you since you slipped away from Oxford. Had a few close matches; base-jumping in Laos, some kind of marathon death fight in Nigeria."

"Mr Kane," Alfred interjected, face cross. "I must ask that you leave us, at once."

"Its okay, Alfred," Bruce said raising his hands consolingly, his eyes appraising his uncle. "And I never killed anyone."

Kane simply smiled once more. "Its funny," he continued. "All that searching, and I should have known the way to find you would be to watch Pennyworth. If you were back, he'd follow you anywhere." Bruce watched look of distaste spread across his uncle's face as he took a step back and surveyed the neighborhood around him in the morning sun with dismay. "Even to Crime Alley."

"You had Alfred followed," the younger man demanded darkly. "What do you want, Uncle Philip?"

His uncle simply raised his hands in a gesture of peace, a cool smile stretching across his lips. "Just a few minutes of your time, Bruce. Drive with me, please." His eyes were earnest, his smile this time genuine. "There's something I'd like to show you."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Their drive through town was long and mired by the city's traffic, and the young man suffered through his uncle's small talk for its entirety, politely answering where necessary and thoroughly disinterested where not.

"Kate starts at St. Hadrian's up in Boston this year" He shook his head, a rueful smile starting to grow. "God, she reminds me of her mother more an more every day."

A pang of guilt finally stabbed its way to Bruce's heart; he hadn't seen his cousin since she was a child. They were his last blood relatives to speak of, and he ignored them for the better part of a decade. Blood still had to count for something.

"I'm sorry about Aunt Deborah, Uncle Philip," the young man said softly, the first sincere thing he had said during the entire conversation. "I…I should have been there."

His uncle simply shook his head. "Don't be, son. Its an old wound, long healed."

They rode in silence for a time after that, until at last they drew near their destination. The skyscraper loomed over just about every other building near it, a mix of classic Gotham Pinkney gothic and modern sensibility, sweeping arches and grey stone facades giving way to gleaming glass expanses. Its sheer size wasn't what stole the young man's attention, though. Nor was it the crowd of protesters, picket signs in hand. No, that honor belonged to what was decorating the building's courtyard.

"You brought me here to see a penny?" Bruce asked incredulously.

Admittedly, it was quite the penny. Nearly twenty feet tall, it stood on its side like some great polished copper mirror, complete with a glowering profile of Abraham Lincoln.

Philip simply laughed. "That was just me indulging myself. I was a geologist before your grandfather dragged me into the family business. Metallurgy was my passion. I still like to play around with it, every now and then. No, what we're here for is behind the penny."

With a flourish, Philip kicked the car into park and extended his arms in fluid motion. "It's the new Wayne Enterprises," he said excitedly. "Newly remodeled." Philip turned to his nephew, eyes inquisitive. "I thought you knew?"

Bruce scratched his head beneath his ball cap, looking sheepish. "I saw the pictures in the newspaper," he admitted, "but I haven't actually seen the place since I came back."

His uncle, it seemed, was undeterred. "Plenty of time to get you back up to speed, my boy. We've been doing incredible work these past few years, incredible work. We finally merged the families, you know," he added proudly. "Kane Chemical is now a part of Wayne Industries, and there's been phenomenal growth in the other sectors as well. Wayne Enterprises in one of the country's leaders in protective technologies."

"Protective technologies?" Bruce shot back. "You mean weapons?"

"Mostly non-lethal, but yes, some," his uncle answered him, consolingly. "Here, come on in and let me show you around."

Bruce made no moves to follow his uncle's enthusiasm, and simply sighed. "I'm sorry, Uncle Philip."

Kane's face fell slightly. "You don't approve of what I've done with the company?"

Bruce Wayne could only shake his head. "No offense, Uncle Philip," he started, "but we barely know each other. You took me to the Pinkney museum once, the week after my parents died. We looked at the dinosaurs." The young man shrugged. "It was a good day. But this, the company? That 's your business."

"But I don't want it to be," Kane answered at his nephew, eyes pleading. "My sister – your mother – she, she…" His voice trailed off, hands in motion as if to snatch his lost words from the air. Finally, the man sighed. "I like to think that this is how I cared for her, and for you, in my own way. I rebuilt this company so that something, some part of that legacy, would live on. Its why I had you declared legally dead; a fresh start."

For a moment it seemed as if the weight of all the world rested on the shoulders of Philip Kane. He looked tired. He looked old. "But this city has always had a tough time trusting the Kanes," he continued. "We've had our share of scandal and controversy. You Waynes," Philip said as he leveled a finger at his nephew, "you were always the popular ones." He shrugged. "Its why everyone was so excited when your parents got engaged; two families," – he laced his fingers together, like the teeth of a gear – "moving forward together, completing each other."

Bruce sat uncomfortably as his uncle laid a hand on his shoulder. "You can't imagine how powerful a symbol it would be to see a Wayne back at the top of this company, Bruce," Philip said in earnest. "You can't."

There was a pregnant pause, and at last Bruce turned to face his uncle. "That's not why I came back to Gotham," he said simply.

"You're really not going to come inside, are you?" When his nephew gave no answer, Philip Kane gave a sad smile and half chuckle. "Guess I really did bring you out here just to show you a penny."

Without ceremony he exited the car and silently Bruce followed.

"I oversaw the forging myself," Philip said a loud as he ran his fingers over the penny's surface, his back to the younger man. Bruce could see his reflection in the penny, the world twisted in that copper mirror, figures and forms indistinct and colors muted. Kane gave another half laugh. "I came this close," he continued, turning around again and holding his thumb and pointer finger a minute distance apart. "This close to spending my life playing with rocks all day, and I would have been perfectly content with that."

He shook his head. "I was on an expedition in northern Mexico when your grandfather, Roderick, learned he was dying. I was down in an honest-to-God cave, Bruce, full of the most beautiful selenite crystals when he came to take me home." Kane's voice trailed off as memories returned to him, and the man closed the distance between them to stand before Gotham's lost prince.

"I understood him though, Bruce," his uncle continued, unabated. "You see, some of us have a responsibility. We give up the things we want to do what needs to be done. We sacrifice."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Philip," Bruce answered at last, softly. "That's not what I'm here to do. That's not who I am."

Tired and world-weary, his uncle looked him in the eyes and spoke the question that he had been trying to answer for himself for far too long.

"Then who are you, Bruce?"

Silence reigned, and with a final sigh Philip Kane took his leave, leaving his nephew alone with his thoughts and a warped copper-tone reflection of the world.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Wayne Manor and its estate were situated in the rolling hills and forests south of the city proper, an isolated oasis away from the chaos of the city. A long driveway wound up through grounds in need of grooming to the mansion's wide front door, and a lone convertible kicked up dust as it traveled along its length.

The car pulled to a halt a fair distance away, and Bruce Wayne surveyed his ancestral home for the first time in years. The ivy was beginning to creep up the front, and the grounds were in need of care, but there was no doubt in his mind that the interior would be immaculately preserved through Alfred's ministrations and that the stalwart butler himself would be brewing a cup of earl grey in the kitchen. Off to the side was the garage where he had helped his father work on his collection of classic cars. With crystal clarity he could picture his mother in the kitchen, apron stained with flour as they baked a cake for Alfred's birthday only to discover the futility of trying to keep a secret from that man in the manor. He could even see in his mind's eye too the old well he had fallen into as a child, the darkness, the bats, and the sight of his father, flashlight in hand as he rappelled down forever seared into memory.

Biting his lip, Bruce dismissed the memories like ghosts and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his uncle's question burning in his soul. Who was Bruce Wayne, truly?

With a heavy heart the young man turned the wheel, hard, and hurried back down the way he came, leaving the sight of home in the rearview mirror with a halo of a dust.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Late that night on the high floors of Wayne Enterprises headquarters, in a room few knew of and even fewer entered, Philip Kane paced impatiently in the little space that was left.

"He's got some kind of chip on his shoulder," he said aloud. "He's not coming around."

"Hate to say I told you so," came his companion's reply, smooth and smug.

"Oh, I know you do," Kane shot back acidly with a frown. He turned to take another lap in the small space the room allowed. The room's majority had been all but consumed by a wall-to-wall tangle of colored yarn, pushpins, and post-it notes. At its center. like a spider in his web, stood his companion.

"I don't know why you're being so biting, Philip," the second man answered him.

"It's called sarcasm."

"Precisely," came the prompt reply. "From the Greek 'sarkasmos', meaning to rip, to tear the flesh." The man flashed a toothy smile. "To bite."

"We perhaps I'm being 'biting'," Philip answered sourly, "because we've stalled. I hired you as my chief strategist despite your less-than-savory past, and I'll admit you've helped this company reach new heights, but its not enough lately."

With an exasperated grunt, Kane plucked one of the spider's strands of yarn that spanned the room and it's shakes reverberated through the whole room-consuming mess. The spider at its center frowned.

"You sit up here in this, this cat's cradle…" Kane's voice trailed off and he turned to his companion in disgust. "I mean, come on does any of this even mean anything?"

"The algorithm is spatial, Philip," the spider replied, terse. "Your touching….disturbs things."

"You know what disturbs things?" the executive shot back. "Our public image problem, that's what. The city hates us for what we're making, and these Red Hood hoodlums are hell-bent on stealing from us, now matter how much we tighten security. So what," Kane spat, "oh wise one, is the answer to our mystery, eh?"

When he received no answer, Kane's patience ran dry.

"Are you even listening to me," he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "God damn it, Nygma, answer the question!"

Edward Nygma turned to face his employer with a cool smile on his face. The younger man smoothed his dress pants, plucked pen from his shirt pocket, and twirled it idly in one hand as he smoothly stepped through his web to face the indignant Kane.

"Its not a mystery that faces us," Nygma said at last, "but a riddle. And riddles always seem so very complicated, but in the end have such simple answers. And you know how this one ends, Philip," he concluded darkly. "For everything we've built here to stand, Bruce Wayne has to stay dead, permanently," Nygma punctuated his plan with a particularly violent click of his pen.

Kane said nothing for a long second before fixing his strategist with a deathly glare. "Suggest that I have my nephew killed one more time," the older man said in a dangerous voice, " and finding new employment will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Nygma?"

"Crystal," Edward replied smugly.

Fuming, Philip Kane stormed out of the room a moment later, leaving his strategist to merely click his tongue and smile.

"Oh Philip," he murmured to himself as he worked is way over to his desk. "You really must learn when to listen to your betters."

Reaching his goal, Edward Nygma could only smile, gleeful that his newest informant's intel could be put to such good use. He had a phone call to make.

**Well, there you go. Hope you enjoyed the read, and please review and comment. Any and all feedback is appreciated. **


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